


Understudy

by PrioritiesSorted



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enjolras isn't actually in this much, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, M/M, One Night Stands, but he's very Present
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/pseuds/PrioritiesSorted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“God, have you ever seen anyone so beautiful?” </p><p>Jehan collapsed into Combeferre’s lap, leaning his head against Combeferre’s shoulder to gaze at where Enjolras was now wracked with silent laughter at something Feuilly was saying. Combeferre was almost drunk enough to say, yes, you, but still the words stuck in his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understudy

**Author's Note:**

> So one day I said "hey I have a really sad Combeferre headcanon" and Elle said "write that shit". 
> 
> And I did. 
> 
> (Mostly bc there is Not Enough Jehan/Combeferre in the world)

Combeferre often wished he was one of those people who woke up slowly, unaware of their surroundings and their situations and their worries for just a few minutes before the waking world came crashing back down again. As it was, when he woke up he was fully sensible of why he was hot and uncomfortable with a weight draped over his chest. He remembered with perfect clarity the frantic tumble they’d taken into his bed, hands grasping at his clothes and hot breath on his skin.

 

He also remembered the argument they’d been having earlier that evening, after Combeferre had dragged Grantaire out of the Corinthe at the close of the meeting. Grantaire’s comments had been more disruptive than usual that evening; somehow more aimless and yet more pointed at the same time, and Enjolras’s knuckles had been white as he gripped the table.

 

Grantaire had been oddly silent on the short walk back to Combeferre’s apartment, but found his voice as soon as the front door closed behind them.

 

“You know, you’re the last the person I expected to snap. I’m curious, what is it about me that managed to one-up that infinite patience of yours?” His smirk was hollow, his eyes frightened, and Combeferre felt his anger start to drain away.

 

“It’s not me who’s losing patience with you, R. Enjolras was furious with you this evening, and I know you noticed,” he said softly, but Grantaire only glared at him, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy with irritation.

 

“I appreciate that you’re looking out for Enjolras, or whatever, but you really don’t need to. I know I was a dick this evening, all right?”

 

“No, Grantaire, it’s not all right, because you were a dick on purpose just to rile him.”

 

“He’s a big boy, Combeferre, he can take care of himself.”

 

Combeferre ran a hand through his hair, trying desperately not to let his frustration leak into his voice, but it still felt too loud when he said,

 

“This isn’t about him, R, it’s about you: you can’t keep doing this, it’s not healthy.”

 

Grantaire scoffed.

 

“I’m serious,” Combeferre insisted. “You can’t carry on like this; one day Enjolras will lose his temper and say something he regrets and we will all just have to sit here are watch you destroy yourself because of it.”

 

“And why is it your fucking business if I do?” Grantaire almost shouted back at him, and Combeferre’s hands were balled into fists as he replied,

 

“Because you’re my friend, Grantaire, and I care about you. I’m not going to watch you hurt yourself.”

 

Grantaire had looked taken aback for a second, staring at Combeferre as if he had just grown another head. The anger seemed to drain out of him, to be replaced with something that might have been confusion, but Combeferre had no time to dissect it, because Grantaire had surged forward, kissing him hard. Combeferre allowed it for a moment before he pulled away to stammer,

 

“That’s not- that isn’t what I meant-”

 

“I know, I know. Just, please, let me…”

 

Combeferre let him.

 

With the morning sunlight filtering through the curtains, and Grantaire’s breath against his shoulder, Combeferre was unsure whether to regret it or not.

 

It would be hypocritical of him to blame Grantaire for wishing he was someone else, (and Combeferre was _so careful_ not to picture a pale throat, long eyelashes fluttering against cheekbones, red hair splaye across his pillow) but it still stung. Grantaire had never particularly paid him any attention until the night before, too busy fixing his stare on Enjolras. They were friends, of course, they spent too much time together to be anything else, and Combeferre remembered a few rambling conversations on sofas in various friends’ apartments, but they had never been close. Perhaps it hadn’t been Combeferre’s place to reprimand Grantaire for how he dealt with his feelings for Enjolras, but he hadn’t been lying when he said he cared about Granatire. Despite his deliberate antagonisms, there was something engaging about him that Combeferre couldn’t quite place.

 

Grantaire stirred, pressing his face into Combeferre’s bare shoulder before appearing to remember where he was; he pulled away and sat up abruptly.

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Yes, we did.” Combeferre agreed lightly, choosing to ignore the slight crisis Grantaire appeared to be having in favour of looking for a fresh pair of boxers. “Do you want some coffee? Breakfast?”

 

“Um… yeah coffee would be good.”

 

“Coming up.” Combeferre pulled on his underwear and padded into the kitchen; it helped to potter around making coffee almost on autopilot, the familiarity of it reminding him that nothing had really changed.

 

Grantaire was fully dressed by the time the coffee was done, and Combeferre suddenly felt very exposed.

 

“No chance this is Irish coffee, is there?”

 

Combeferre chose not to dignify that with a response, pushing Grantaire’s coffee towards him wordlessly. Grantaire took a hopeful sip and grimaced,

 

“Well, we don’t always get what we want.”

 

“Perhaps I should be offended, but I’m sure that my regular coffee and I aren’t a patch on alcohol and Enjolras.”

 

Grantaire huffed out a laugh, wrapping his fingers around the coffee mug.

 

“As if Enjolras would ever give me alcohol.”

 

“Yeah, because between him sleeping with you and giving you alcohol, the alcohol less likely,” Combeferre commented, his voice laced with sarcasm. He regretted it immediately, and wondered exactly what it was about Grantaire that rendered his brain-to-mouth filter all but useless. Fortunately, Grantaire only clapped a hand to his chest dramatically and said,

 

“You wound me. What did I ever do to deserve this?”

 

“Nothing, sorry. I just… sorry. Do you want to use the shower?” If Grantaire noticed the abrupt change of subject he was good enough not to mention it, and shook his head in reply.

 

“Nah, if I’m going to do the walk of shame, I might as well do it wholeheartedly.”

 

Combeferre was surprised, but supposed that Grantaire had walked home in much worse states of a morning.

 

“Fair enough,” he said, idly wondering if Grantaire was planning on leaving soon: he might not feel the need to wash yet, but Combeferre himself was already craving the shower.

 

“You aren’t going to lecture me on the slut shaming inherent in the phrase ‘walk of shame’?”

 

Combeferre couldn’t help smiling a little at that, wondering if Grantaire had used the phrase precisely because he expected a lecture. What that would have achieved Combeferre didn’t know, but Grantaire’s mind had always been more incomprehensible than most.

 

“Well,” he replied, “you slept with me purely because I care about you as a human being and I let you so ‘walk of shame’ has suddenly become surprisingly apt.”

 

Grantaire grinned,

 

“I’ve always thought self-respect was overrated. And hey,” he pointed at Combeferre, “don’t sell yourself short, I also slept with you because you’re hot.”

 

“I really don’t know what to say to that.”

 

Grantaire only shrugged and drained his coffee mug.

 

“Well, this has been lovely, but I must be off. Places to be, y’know.”

 

“I’m sure.” Combeferre smiled and raised his mug to toast Grantaire as he let himself out of Combeferre’s apartment. The door closed softly behind him and Combeferre was left sitting in kitchen, lukewarm coffee still half drunk, wondering if any of it had really happened at all.

 

(By the end of the following Les Amis meeting, Combeferre was forced to conclude that it had indeed happened. When even Enjolras had noticed a change in Grantaire’s behaviour, leaning across the table to ask,

 

“Why does Grantaire keep winking at you?”

 

Combeferre found himself floundering for any answer that wasn’t the truth.)

 

* * *

 

Fortunately for Combeferre, Grantaire seemed to tire of teasing him by the following weekend, when they all squeezed into Courfeyrac’s apartment to celebrate Bahorel finally graduating from law school.

 

Bahorel himself was happy and raucous, egged on by Grantaire and Bousset. Combeferre couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm as he sipped his wine, comfortably ensconced in Courfeyrac’s squishiest armchair. The atmosphere was so relaxed that Combeferre felt as though he could sink into the chair for eternity, content to observe the happiness of his friends. Even Enjolras seemed to let go that evening, his posture lacked its usual tense lines, and his smile was ready and blinding.

 

“God, have you ever seen anyone so beautiful?”

 

Jehan collapsed into Combeferre’s lap, leaning his head against Combeferre’s shoulder to gaze at where Enjolras was now wracked with silent laughter at something Feuilly was saying. Combeferre was almost drunk enough to say, _yes, you,_ but still the words stuck in his throat. Jehan idly traced the shape of Combeferre’s hand before lacing their fingers together, and Combeferre closed his eyes against the sudden onslaught of feeling.

 

For a moment, he felt seventeen again, forcing an apologetic smile to his lips and pretending his heart wasn’t breaking. But this was different, this Jehan; Jehan who appreciated beauty in all things and probably wasn’t in love with Enjolras. Still, he felt a sharp pang of jealousy, so at odds with the feeling of Jehan’s warm weight against him, limbs tangled comfortably together.

 

It was all too much, suddenly, and Combeferre squirmed to get out of the chair, dislodging Jehan as he muttered,

 

“Sorry, um, bathroom.”

 

Combeferre barely made it out of the room before he felt the tears prick at his eyes. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t even jealous, really; he knew Jehan, knew that he was prone to hyperbole where he friends were concerned. Still, he couldn’t help being frustrated with himself for letting those stupid teenage insecurities follow him into his adult life. He had always been a rational person, letting things wash over him when they didn’t matter, yet he could not let go of this most ridiculous of feelings.

 

He dug his fingernails into his palms, forcing the tears back, but he still had to get out of the apartment, had to get away from the noise and the heat of his friends’ merrymaking. The confusion in Courfeyrac’s face when Combeferre announced his departure sent another jolt of guilt through him, and the door slammed behind him as though it knew what a coward he was.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t expected to be left alone the next day, but as the sun sank down to leave nothing more than a faint crimson stripe against the dark, he began to think he might have escaped Courfeyrac’s inquisition about his abrupt departure the previous night.

 

Of course, that was when the doorbell rang.

 

It wasn’t Courfeyrac.

 

“Hi. Um, can I come in?” Jehan stood in the hallway, fidgeting with the tassels on his jacket.

 

“Of course.”

 

A tense silence followed them into Combeferre’s living room, strange as it was disconcerting. Combeferre was about to offer a cup of tea when Jehan blurted out,

 

“The other night, did I say something wrong?”

 

He should have seen it coming, really. Jehan was horribly perceptive at the best of times, let alone when Combeferre was barely keeping it together.

 

“No, no Jehan don’t worry about it,” he said, though he doubted it would dissuade Jehan, “it was stupid, really.”

 

“If it’s upsetting you it’s not stupid,” Jehan insisted, and Combeferre almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

 

“I assure you it’s profoundly stupid.”

 

He sat down heavily on the sofa, Jehan dropping to his knees next to it. Combeferre had long since given up on questioning Jehan’s disinclination towards chairs, but he wished Jehan would sit beside him for once: the fierce concern in Jehan’s eyes was somehow harder to bear when he was staring up at Combeferre, his eyes wide.

 

“Have you spoken to anyone about it, whatever it is? I don’t want to pressure you but I’ve never seen you like this and I just want to know that you’re okay, or at least that you’re going to be.”

 

“Of course I’m okay,” Combeferre lied. Jehan raised an eyebrow, the sceptical expression unfamiliar on his face. “No, really, I am. It’s just some old insecurities playing up. It’ll go away soon enough, it always does.”

 

“That’s much less reassuring than you imagine it is.” Jehan said evenly, and Combeferre looked down at his tea instead of replying.

 

“You know that Les Amis sort of began with me and Enjolras back when we were in school? Well, in our last year this boy started turning up there, and he would always sit by me and talk to me and I… well I had a bit of a crush on him, honestly, and one day he asks me if he can have a quick word after the meeting. Obviously I thought- well anyway, turns out he just wanted to ask if Enjolras was single. Enjolras barely even knew his name and yet... People look at him and they’re just dazzled, this effect he has on people is astonishing and I don’t begrudge him that, of course I don’t, but I’ve spent more than half my life standing in the shadow of it, and it’s hard, sometimes. And I’m making it sound like it’s all about some unrequited crush but it’s not really that at all, not any more. It’s whatever quality he has that makes people flock to him; I know that he and I have similar views and similar intellects and I know that I am just as passionate about our causes as he is, yet I can’t help but feel the lack of whatever it is that makes him so engaging. I sit in our meetings watching him captivate you all, _being_ captivated, and I just feel like… like a stand in, I suppose. The understudy Enjolras who sits in the wings knowing all the words and all the moves but just not being quite as good at them,” he finished pathetically.

 

Now he said the words out loud, his feelings sounded even more petty and insubstantial. Combeferre stared down at his hands, fidgeting restlessly in his lap, rather than look at Jehan and see the inevitable pity in his face.

 

He almost jumped when he felt a soft touch against his cheek: Jehan’s fingers flitted across his face, like a blind man trying to figure out his features, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and almost brittle,

 

“You’ve felt this way for _years?_ ‘Ferre what happened? There must have been something...”

 

“I, um, I slept with Grantaire.” Combeferre could feel himself blushing, and fervently hoped it wasn’t deep enough to show up against the darkness of his skin.

 

“Oh.”

 

“It’s not- I don’t mean that I have _feelings_ for Grantaire,” Combeferre explained hastily, “it’s just that… I know I was a stand-in for him. He knows me primarily as Enjolras’s right hand, close enough to what he really wants, and someone who actually cares about him.”

 

That was uncharitable and Combeferre knew it. Enjolras did care about Grantaire: it was clear it the little lines between his eyebrows as he watched Grantaire drain a glass, and the tense set of his shoulders when Grantaire wandered into the Musain covered in bruises. It was clear to Combeferre, at any rate, even if Enjolras himself had yet to notice.

 

“I’m sorry. I know I’m being unreasonable, I mean… second place to Enjolras isn’t bad, right?” He managed a weak smile, yet that only seemed to deepen Jehan’s frown.

 

“I really never thought I would say this, but you are so wrong. ‘Ferre, you’ve never been second place to anyone.” The softness had disappeared from his voice, to be replaced with that familiar steel that brooked no argument. “Enjolras would be lost without you; he’s the sort of man people will follow into battle, sure, but you’re the one they’d look to once it was done. You both have such light in you, and his is… it’s bright and dazzling so much that it’s almost blinding, it draws people in but sometimes it can almost be too much. Yours is so… it’s soft and warm like dawn in summer, the kind of light you want to wrap yourself in because you feel so safe there.”

 

Abruptly, Jehan stopped talking, a pink blush spreading across his cheeks.

 

“Or at least, that’s how I see it.”

 

There was something incredibly fragile in Jehan’s expression, and Combeferre couldn’t help but reach out for him. Jehan came easily into Combeferre’s lap, curled into his chest so that his face was pressed into Combeferre’s neck.

 

“Thank you.” Combeferre breathed, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Jehan’s head. Jehan pulled away to look at him, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows,

 

“You don’t need to thank me for telling the truth.”

 

Fixed by the earnestness of Jehan’s gaze, Combeferre could only sit, frozen, as Jehan pressed a feather light kiss to his lips. Then came another, and another: soft, hesitant little kisses, as if Jehan was trying to give him the option to back out, not to take it any further. But Combeferre’s arms were winding themselves around Jehan’s waist, keeping him close, and he had to pull away.

 

“Jehan, wait, Jehan, this isn’t just a pity thing, is it? Because if it is I can’t…” he stuttered, but Jehan only shook his head,

 

“No, never. I love you.” The ease with which he said the words took Combeferre’s breath away.

 

“Oh,” he breathed, “You mean like…”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Combeferre smiled, tightening his grip on Jehan’s waist to pull him close. A breathy laugh escaped him as he gently brushed the tip of his nose against Jehan’s, and Jehan cradled his face, his thumbs brushing against the smooth skin of Combeferre’s cheeks.

 

Finally, Jehan leaned in to kiss him properly, which was lucky since Combeferre doubted he could have stopped smiling for anything else. These kisses held none of the previous hesitancy, and Combeferre’s hands grasped at the back of Jehan’s shirt as he leaned in to Jehan’s lush kisses. Even so, the corners of his mouth kept tugging up, and Jehan was forced to abandon Combeferre’s mouth to press butterfly kisses to his nose and his cheeks and jaw.

 

“I love you too. I didn’t say but I- I love you.”

 

Jehan beamed.

 

“I know.”

 

* * *

  
Combeferre woke the next morning, alone but ecstatic. Jehan had slipped away in the early morning, kissing Combeferre’s head and promising he’d be back in a few hours, but the scent of his shampoo still lingered on the pillow. Combeferre wished that he’d been a little more awake to see Jehan off, but Jehan had shushed his sleepy protests and tucked the warm blankets around him, and Combeferre had fallen back to sleep before Jehan had left his room.

 

Now, the sun was pouring in through Combeferre’s thin curtains, and his eye was caught by a swirl of unfamiliar colour. The chalkboard mounted on his wall had been wiped of his reminders, and in their place was a message written in every colour of chalk Combeferre owned:

 

_Different, but just as wonderful._

 

Combeferre smiled, and thought that maybe one day he could believe it.  
  



End file.
